"GOD WILLS IT!"
The cry echoed through the camp and all those able tumbled out of the make-shift tents, weapons drawn as men bearing the familiar tunic of the Templar Knights poured into the area, calling their traditional, familiar battle cry, weapons raised. It was the fourth Templar raid that week alone, and the numbers of the camp were seriously depleted. Cries went up, Men ran out, some on horse back, some on foot, struggling through the hot, dry sand.
In the medical tent, Safia sighed. The man she had been cautiously treating under the direction of her father, the caravan's doctor, pushed her aside and stormed out. Salah al-Din was going to fight, despite the shouts of his trusted physician.
"Princess" One of the women attendants ran forward to help Safia up. She brushed her angrily aside, adjusting the silken headdress that she wore covering her hair. Outside the tent, the sounds of battle raged around, but those sheltering in the tent showed no fear. The sounds were an every day occurrence. Safia made her way to her father, who had taught her the medical skills she now put to such good use. The man had picked up his sword, and his servants were fitting his armour.
"Father, you can't go out there"
"I must Child. The people will say that I am a coward, that I do not deserve to own the name I do. I must stand along side my Brother, along side Salah al-Din."
"But who will look after the wounded?"
"You!"
"They will not listen to me papa. I am a woman! While I wear this" she tugged at the traditional head covering that she wore loosely "They will not listen!"
"You are daughter of Kings, Safia. Daughter of queens, niece of Salah al-Din. If they listened to any woman, it would be you." Her father reached out a hand to brush her cheek lightly. "Make them listen." And with that, his armour fitted, he turned and left the tent, his voice joining the hundreds of yelling, screaming voices, his sword adding to the clash of metal against metal. Safia closed her eyes and muttered a prayer to her God.
"GOD WILLS IT!"
More men took up the cry. The Templars were winning. Salah al-Din's men were being beaten back. Safia's eyes flew open as the tent ripped open and a man hurried in, carrying a fallen soldier.
"Safia!" the cry was torn from his lips. She rushed over to him, skirts flying, her headdress unravelling and falling to the floor, but she paid it no heed. She was needed.
Salah al-Din, as always, snatched Victory from under the noses of the Templars, and they returned, dejected to their camps. Tomorrow, the Saracen war camp would begin the journey back to the city of Jerusalem, home for many of them, but not for Safia, her father and her twin brother. Their home lay in Damascus, to the north. The Salah al-Din would rest his troop for a day or two, and then they would ride to Acre, where he planned to meet Richard, King of England, head on. There was an army already assembled in the city and waiting, they just needed their leader.
Said leader now hovered over Safia's shoulder as she concentrated on repairing the leg of one of his trusted advisors. Loosing the leg was not an option, and her face was frowning with the strain. Where was her father? Probably giving medical aid out on the battlefield, with not a thought for anyone except the wounded on the grass. Safia was not prepared for her brother to burst in through the tent, calling for help, their father in his arms.
Safia could not leave the leg; a pause in the treatment would mean that the man she was tending too would bleed to death. One of her attendants went to his bedside, and tried to help him in any way she knew how. But it was no use. Safia's father died while he was waiting for his daughter to come to him and save his life. And she never forgave herself.
The next day, the man whose leg she saved was dead. And the Templars came again. Silently in the night, a form of attack that even the Saracen's were not prepared for. As Salah al-Din left their tent, Safia saw a smile on his face, as though he was almost proud of his enemy for deploying such a tactic. Safia and her brother were left to say a hastened good bye as Djaq shrugged on his armour and hurried to join his Uncle. Safia slipped away, to the tent of the wounded, her sword fastened to her side, her headscarf wrapped around her head. She would not be allowed to fight, but she would not surrender the wounded without first raising a sword in defence.
"Safia"
It was later in the morning, and the battle still raged outside, neither side winning, neither side loosing, nor neither side showing any signs of retreating or asking for terms. Safia had been kept running about as those men strong enough to drag themselves into the tent asked her for help. This time, it was her brother, a sword gash splitting open his side, his hand holding himself together. He collapsed in the doorway, and she dragged him in, out of the way of the fighting.
As she pushed away his clothes so that she could see the damage, he lifted his blood-covered hands and took hers away.
"Leave it Safia" his voice was strained, pain evident, breathing laboured. "Don't waste your efforts."
"No Djaq!" She half sobbed, pulling her hands out of his and going back to his wound.
"Safia, it is hopeless! Leave it!" She gave a half moan as she saw that he was right, his wound would be fatal no matter what she did to try and save him. But surely there was always a point in trying? Djaq answered that for her when he slumped, his eyes closed, his head falling back onto the ground.
"Djaq!!" Her voice was quiet but desperate, and she seized his shoulders, shaking him. "Djaq!"
"Safia" his voice was barely there, his breath causing her hair to flutter as she leant closer to hear him. "Never give up Safia. Never stop fighting. All men and woman have a right to be free. That is what this is about. Remember that. I love you Safia." He paused, and he reached out for his sword which he had dropped as she dragged him inside. Passing it too him, she smiled through her tears. "Safia, my sword is yours" He passed it back, and she took it, looking shocked. "Safia dies today, not Djaq." he brushed her cheek, leaving a blood stain on her skin. "Use it well"
His last three words were faint, and as he uttered them his eyes closed for the last time, his muscles relaxed, his head rolling back. His pain leaving him. Safia watched as the life left him, praying to Allah for his safe passage. His sword in her hands, she stared down at it. Safia died today. With grim determination, she ripped the head scarf from her head, and raised the sword. Taking hold of a large clump of her long black hair, she began to relentlessly saw and chop.
A short while late the floor was littered with chunks and clumps of black hair. Safia had switched her clothes with her brothers, wrapping the headscarf lovingly round his head. Checking her reflection in the metallic blade of his sword, she nodded grimly. She would pass, at least until they got to Jerusalem. Giving one last glance down at Djaq, she raised her sword and prepared to charge out into the fray of the battle.
One step outside the tent flap, and she felt a great weight on the side of her head, her vision blurring and darkness over whelming her, her sword clattering to the floor, followed closely by her body. The battle raged above her as she slowly lost consciousness.
"You see" As she began to come round, she heard a voice taunting over her. "It is as God wills it." She uttered a small, inaudible groan. That phrase!! It was so infuriation. Who was this God of the Christian's if he willed so much bloodshed, fear, terror and heartache? Defiantly someone that she would find no relief and comfort in knowing that he existed. Her eyes opening, she saw a Templar parading in front of her. She was tied awkwardly against a pole along with two other men from her camp. "Once again the Christian's win, and the Saracen's, the infidels, loose. Once again, God shows his support for the Christians."
"If God were to show his support then the war would not exist" She couldn't help but snap back. There were gasps from her companions and one started muttering a hurried prayer to Allah, repenting his sins.
"What is your name?" The Templar struck out at her, hitting her across her face. "Answer me, infidel. What is your name?" She still didn't answer. "You are a prisoner of War, you will be escorted back to Christian Countries to work as slaves for the highest bidder. Now, you will tell me your name." Safia looked up, her cheeks smarting, her eyes watering from his slap. Her voice was quiet, defiant, as she fulfilled her brothers last wish.
"My name is Djaq."